The Care and Handling of Roses With Thorns (27 page)

Winslow Blythe’s
Complete Rose Guide

(SoCal Edition)

September

Just when you think the pest danger is past, it returns. With warm summer nights disappearing, aphids may be on the rise. Look for them and the cutter bee, which will leave large circular holes in your rose leaves. Caterpillars will eat the rose buds.

In any case, you must be vigilant this month, or your fall blooms will be jeopardized.

38

T
HE DIALYSIS CLINIC STILL SEEMS STRANGE WITHOUT
M
R.
Walters. New people come in all the time, unfortunately for them, but Mr. Walters was always the constant. The big guy in white. Now that we’re friends, I see why all the nurses liked him.

“Heard from Mark lately?” I ask Nurse Sonya, who sits nearly hidden behind the wall partition.

She shakes her head.

I feel guilty. I haven’t seen him since we played cards almost two months ago. School has started, and I’ve gotten busy again. I make a note to call him.

Dr. Blankenship walks by the nurses’ station. She stops when she sees me. She’s on her way home, already changed out of her lab coat.

“Hey, Doc.” I lean through the window and call.

“Gal.” Her face falls. “I was about to call you.”

I observe her pale face. “It’s not good news, I presume?”

We go to her office. She shuts the door and sits not behind her desk, but in the chair next to mine.

“Gal,” she says, “I have some bad news.”

My body tenses. Something else happened. Kidney guidelines have changed; I am never going to get a transplant.

Her hair falls over her face as she leans her head to the side. “Gal. Mark Walters passed away yesterday.”

I do not comprehend what she is telling me. I blink dumbly.

“He got another infection last week, and didn’t recover. I’m sorry.” She blinks rapidly. “His funeral will be on Saturday.”

“But I just saw him,” I blurted, though really it was six weeks ago. “We played cards.”

“I’m sorry, Gal.” She reaches for pen and paper, scribbling down the name of a church. Her hand shakes, so her handwriting’s worse than usual. “We did everything we could.” Her nose runs.

I pluck out a tissue from the generic box on her desk.

She blows. “I really ought to buy the nicer stuff. This is rough.”

We both laugh in spite of ourselves.

She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Gal. I try not to get personally involved, but that is impossible sometimes.”

“I know.” Cold floods my fingers. My heart pounds quickly in my ears. I hold onto the chair arms so I don’t fall out.

Walters can’t be dead.

I take the piece of paper with the church address and put it in my purse.

“Don’t worry, Gal. I won’t let that happen to you.” She looks up at me, newly intense, and she sounds like she is speaking the truth. But all she speaks is her own promise. There’s a difference.

I push my chair back. I’m sick to my stomach. “I’ve got to start dialysis.”

“I’ll walk out with you.” She gets up. She turns off the lights and locks her door, checking the knob twice. I wait, realizing my hands are shaking.

I follow her slowly out. She pauses at the nurses’ station, and I know she is going to break the news to them. I return to the waiting room and go into the bathroom, lock the door, so I don’t have to watch.

39

I
T RAINS THE DAY OF THE FUNERAL, THAT
S
ATURDAY.
Uncharacteristic for this time of year. Rain at a funeral means something, but I can’t remember what. The rain is more like a drizzle, so light I don’t bother with an umbrella. The burial is a private family matter.

I stand in Walters’s son’s house for the wake, by myself. I have brought a dish of enchiladas and placed them on the white-lace dining table, bowing under all the food. The small house is elbow to elbow with people, mostly senior citizens, but many younger than that. Walters had many friends. Idly I wonder how many people would show up to a wake of mine.

Walters’s son, Kevin, talks to Dr. Blankenship. Around thirty years old, he looks a great deal like his father, only with a mop of sandy blond hair instead of white. “He was sick for such a long time,” he says. “I’m sort of glad he’s not suffering anymore.”

The words shock me like electricity. I know it’s what people say after people have been sick a long time. But Walters, I am sure, was not ready to pass. If he suffered, he did as a fighter.

I offer Kevin my condolences. “He talked about you a lot,” I say.

Kevin bends over to my eye level. “You must be Gal.”

I nod.

“I know you, too.” He puts his glass of wine down on top of the black upright piano. “I’ll be right back.”

I wait, with Dr. Blankenship standing beside me silently.

“He didn’t want to die, you know,” I say to her. “Suffering or not.”

“I know.” Her cool fingers press briefly against my arm.

She wanders away.

Kevin returns, a small stuffed animal in his hand. A penguin. “He told me to buy a penguin and give it to you. Said something about a baked Alaska melting.”

I smile in spite of myself, taking the stuffed animal in my hands. It’s a baby penguin, the lower half gray, with large plastic eyes, made of some kind of incredibly soft material. I imagine Walters on his deathbed, concerned not just with saying good-bye, but croaking out instructions for his son to obtain a Beanie Baby for a relative stranger. How like him.

Then I picture Walters swaddled in a white snowsuit, waddling among the penguins, icicles forming on his mustache. “He wanted to go to Antarctica. I can just see your father with his white hair on the white snow. He would have been camouflaged on the ice.”

Kevin laughs, then wipes his eyes, his smile fading. “That sounds like something Dad would have wanted to do. I wondered about the penguin.”

“I guess I’ll have to go for him.” I clutch the stuffed animal to my chest.

The rain outside has picked up, at last turning into something that can properly be called rain. I clutch the penguin and watch the drops splatter the windows. Inside, the lights are on, so all of us are reflected in the glass, spectral images projected onto the trees and grass of the backyard. And I remember. I’ve heard it rains only on days good people are buried. But Walters was, as he said, a heathen. I smile.

• • •

A
FTER THE FUNERAL,
my head begins throbbing. I go home and get in bed, my clothes still on, shivering. I don’t turn on any lights.

Riley raps on the door frame. “Another bad spell, Aunt Gal?”

I swallow. When I speak, my voice is so soft, she has to lean forward to hear. “You might say that. I’ll be all right.”

Riley disappears.

The sun goes down. I lie awake, watching the shadows change.

Mark Walters’s death has shaken me more than I can admit. How am I supposed to carry on with dialysis when you die after a transplant, the thing that’s supposed to save you? I want to live, but everything seems pointless. Why bother to put myself through it all?

Footsteps sound. Lights turn on. Dara and Riley appear, sticking their heads in the doorway.

“Gal? You going to be okay?” Dara whispers. “Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head.

“It’s that guy who died,” Riley says.

Real tears well up now, at last. They stream down my face.

Dara comes in, takes a tissue out of the box. She wipes the tears away. “You’re not him, Gal.”

She looks so worried, her brow wrinkled, that I want to sit up and stop crying. But I can’t.

I turn over, my back to my niece and my friend. “I’ll be all right. Just leave me be.”

• • •

W
HEN
I
ARRIVE
at school on Monday, Dara and Riley are in the hallway, stapling up fliers. Down the hall George is doing the same thing. And Dr. O’Malley.

It’s early. No other students have arrived, the front gate still locked. Strong morning light is filtering through the dusty windows. “What’s going on?” I move up behind Riley. I had wondered where she went.

She jumps. “Aunt Gal, you scared me!”

Dara hits her black stapler hard with her palm. “We’re in the middle of something here, Gal.” But she winks.

“Something for you.” Riley hands me a flier.

CUPCAKES FOR A KIDNEY

W
HEN:
Friday at lunch and after school

W
HY:
To fund a kidney transplant for Miss Garner

 

I am speechless.

Dr. O’Malley and George approach. “You’re going to need time off,” Dr. O’Malley says. “This will help.”

“Dr. O’Malley and I have the wrong blood type for you,” Dara says.

“But I don’t.” George smiles. “Type O. The universal donor.”

“Yes?” I don’t understand.

“I am getting tested to be a potential donor.”

I am even more speechless.

Riley claps her hands together. “We did it. Finally. She has nothing to say!”

“And you know what? Maybe we can organize an organ swap. I give my kidney to someone with the right match, someone else gives you a kidney with the right match.” Dara staples another flier to the wall. “We can make it work, Gal.”

This is overwhelming. That someone—people—are helping me like this. I want to laugh and weep. Jump up and down. But instead I stand still, my mouth open, unable to move. My friends all stare at me with concern.

George grins and speaks first, to my relief. “Well, we did it. We found a way to strike her mute. Cupcakes are the secret.”

I smile back into his merry brown eyes. He is patient. In a moment, I find my voice. “I’m just glad we’ll finally be putting your showroom kitchen to good use.”

“Who said anything about my kitchen?” He shakes his head playfully.

“George’s kitchen. Good idea, Gal.” Dara begins ticking off cupcake flavors on her fingertips. “We need chocolate, vanilla, maybe strawberry.”

“We can do a chocolate-dipped one,” Riley adds.

“How about something more creative, like avocado and bacon?” Dara says.

“Nothing weird,” I say, but she waves me off.

They all move down the hall, deep in discussions of decorations and numbers.

Only George remains behind. He indicates the others with his thumb, like a hitchhiker. “Coming, Miss Garner?”

I blink. To my surprise, my feet move of their own volition. Toward him. “Indeed, Mr. Morton.”

He hands me a stapler.

Winslow Blythe’s
Complete Rose Guide

(SoCal Edition)

October

Living in SoCal is a mixed bag sometimes. There are mild winters, but also occasional wildfires, not to mention earthquakes and pollution. The month of October is still hot and requires daily watering.

This month will be the
last time
you feed your roses. You want the roses to begin their winter slowdown and rejuvenation.

October sees many rose shows around the state. Try your hand at an entry, or simply go check out what’s new and exciting. You might be surprised at the new varieties of roses coming out, and want to try your hand at one for your own garden.

It’s also when you want to do what many rose growers dread: get rid of the underperformers. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, a rose simply will not do well in your garden. There’s no shame in it. Pull it out, plant it in a different spot, or give it away. You’ll be surprised at how often a simple change of venue will allow an underperforming rose to thrive.

40

T
HE
A
MERICAN
R
OSE
S
OCIETY HOLDS ITS FALL ROSE SHOW
and convention in Los Angeles this year. It is the most important rose show I have attended yet. I enter two competitions. One for the Rose Hybridizers Association Trophy, and another for consideration in the next International Rose trial.

I write the seedling’s name on the form. The Riley.

Riley and I drive down the night before, my rose in hand. My stomach feels like it’s tied into Celtic knots, and whenever I get behind the wheel, my foot turns to lead. I let Riley drive most of the way, forcing myself to relax. This time it’s me who turns the music up too loud.

The show is at the Hilton at Universal Studios, in Studio City. “Can we go to Universal Studios, as long as we’re here?” Riley asks as soon as we get into the lobby, as I knew she would. She rolls the cooler behind her with the rose inside. I have made no effort to hide the big “Riley” sticker I have made for it.

“We’ll see. If I win, then definitely.”

“I think I have better luck when you lose,” Riley says.

“Probably so,” I say. “Heck, if I lose this time I might be so depressed that I’ll take you to Vegas.”

“But I’m too young to gamble.”

I shrug. “Guess that’ll be too bad for you.”

“Oh, Aunt Gal.”

I immediately feel at home. The lobby has two-story windows curved inward, resembling a greenhouse. A long chandelier lights up the room and a large rose arrangement underneath.

Riley turns away the bellhop who tries to take the cooler, wheeling the thing across the lobby herself. She pushes the elevator button. “Can we at least go into CityWalk and look around?”

The hotel adjoins a colossal mall, full of pricey entertainment and dining options. “All right. But outside of dinner, you’ll have to use your allowance.”

• • •

T
HE ROSE SHOW
takes place in a great ballroom the next morning. Lights glow above in two starburst chandeliers set into the ceiling. The carpet, in polka dots that remind me of black olives, makes my head swim if I stare at it too long.

Riley wears a light purple polo shirt, in honor of the Hulthemia, with khaki pants and a matching purple headband with white stripes. “You’re turning positively preppy,” I tease her. I put on an argyle cardigan in many pastel colors, knowing the air-conditioning will be cranked high, over my own khaki pants. For the first time, we look as though we could be related.

Rows of tables have already been set up, each with a white tablecloth and a number. I get my number, 110, and look for my table, Riley trailing behind with my cooler. There are masses of people running about, busily setting up multiple displays, and the air is thick with the scent of roses. Sweet and musky. Spicy and fruity. Peaches, pears, strawberries. Honey and cream. Loose tea. Red wine. Pepper. My nose is busier than a bloodhound’s.

Every rose I see is perfectly formed, a prime example of its breed. The displays are meticulously arranged, every bloom looking as though it was just plucked from a dewy bush. The room looks like a bridal wonderland.

This is the biggest rose show I’ve ever attended. My Hybrid Rose category has three dozen competitors, all spread throughout the tables.

Across the room, I see Byron’s head. He nods once. I nod back.

May the best rose win.

Riley and I reach the 110 table. I pop open the cooler and take out the rose. I have packed it in a base of Styrofoam and breathe a sigh to see it still upright in its pot. I take it out and place it into a larger ceramic pot that Dara has made for me. The pot is beautiful, with metallic tones of gold, silver, and green. It makes the Hulthemia rose colors pop.

“Raku?” Riley asks, turning the pot.

“That’s it.” I am not sure what raku means, other than it’s the way Dara fired it. She took it out of the hot kiln and put it into an old oil drum filled with sawdust.

Riley runs her hand over the piece. I straighten the tag I’ve attached to the plant. It’s all I can do to not point to it.

At last she notices. “Does that say ‘Riley’?”

“If it were a snake, it would have bitten you.” I move behind the table.

She is silent, regarding the pottery and the Hulthemia. The rose is at its best today. Its blooms have matured into many layers of petals, twenty-six at last count. The white stands out from the lavender like irregular stripes on candy, and the heart center is a stunning dark purple instead of red. I can see more buds appearing, and it hasn’t gotten too bushy yet, like the original Hulthemia in the wild would. Its leaves are luxuriously dark green and its stamens stick out canary yellow.

I sniff the bloom nearest me. The scent has also matured. Green apples, vanilla, and an undertone of cayenne. Like being in the spice aisle of the grocery store, holding an apple pie in your hands. Sweet, but not too sweet.

Like Riley herself.

Not that I would tell her that. She would be terribly embarrassed.

I think it’s the best Hulthemia I’ve ever seen.

Maybe the best rose.

I touch the petals gently.

“It’s beautiful, Aunt Gal,” Riley says.

I nod. “Thank you for saving it, Riley.”

“It’s you who created it.” She gives me a gentle smile and comes back around the table. We sit down together on the flimsy folding chairs and watch as people drifting by stop to admire the flower. My flower. Drawn like bees.

If I have been judged, I am not aware of it. So many people have come by the table, some with clipboards, many with cameras, asking questions and jotting down notes, that I could have been judged a hundred times over and been unaware.

Ms. Lansing walks up, most definitely a judge. Today she wears a peach suit with a creamy ruffled blouse, her heels three inches too high for any human being, her pantyhose unnaturally tan. She beams, lipstick on her teeth. “Gal. My goodness. Glad to see you out and about.”

“I’m not dead yet,” I say, only half joking.

She blanches. What people don’t know is if you don’t joke about cheating death, you’ll be horribly depressed all the time. It does throw some off.

“Good for you,” she says faintly. She puts on the glasses from the chain around her neck and regards the rose. She makes a soft clucking noise in the back of her throat, like some strange hen. Which in fact she resembles, with her large chest tapering to tiny feet. Riley and I grin at each other.

Ms. Lansing’s mouth straightens into an ugly line. She begins writing, fast, on her clipboard. She turns the judging sheet over and writes some more. I begin to feel nervous. Surely it’s not a good sign, all that writing.

Three more judges walk up. Of course. They wear name tags with long green ribbons dangling from them. I smile and greet them. Ms. Lansing hasn’t moved out of their way yet.

The judges see my flower and turn very serious. One of them, a man in his sixties with a great gray handlebar mustache, asks, “How did you obtain the striping?”

My phone rings. The number is George’s. My heart thunders. “Pardon me,” I say to the judge. There’s only one reason for him to call me right now. To give me the kidney compatibility test results.

“Watch the table, Riley.” I walk away, heedless of the judges, heedless of everything except the necessity of getting to a quiet place. “Hello?” I say, moving out of the ballroom at a fast clip.

“Gal.” It’s George. “I have the results.”

I take several breaths, leaning against a wall. “Well, what are you waiting for? Break it to me.”

I can feel his extreme regret before he utters another word. “I’m sorry, Gal.”

I blink at the ceiling. I sink to the floor. Darn. I hadn’t realized quite how badly I wanted his kidney. How much I had expected it to match. How perfect that would have been, a solution right under my nose.

“The other teachers with type O blood have all agreed to be tested, too,” he says. I swallow. My voice doesn’t work.

“We’ll make announcements at the school, at church, on Twitter. We’ll set up a chain donor system. Don’t you worry, Gal.” His voice, warm and worried, comforts me somewhat. Imagine. George doing this for me.

“I am very grateful,” I manage to choke out. “Thank you.”

I hang up and sit for a minute, drawing my knees up to my head, resting my forehead there.

Tonight I will go to a dialysis center here in Los Angeles. Our hotel room will be empty; I’m not comfortable having Riley stay alone in a hotel, away from me and from home. I will do this the day after tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow after that, and so forth forever, through vacations and work, picking up infections the way black sweaters catch lint.

I am not sure how long I can continue. How long I
will
continue. The human body has its breaking point.

I find I cannot bring myself to get up. Not one of the dozens of people walking by asks me if I need help. I don’t blame them. They are all concerned about their own roses, their own judging.

“Hey.” Riley is shaking my knee. “Auntie.”

I raise my head to look at her. The poor girl’s face is creased with concern. I’m going to prematurely wrinkle her. “Sorry, Riley.” I hold up my hand. She pulls me up. “I just had to sit for a second.”

She considers whether or not to accept it. I begin walking to the table. “Anything exciting happen while I was gone?”

“The judges took your rose,” Riley says, skipping ahead of me and walking backward though there are people jamming every available breathing space.

I don’t understand. “What do you mean?”

“They took it. The man with the mustache.” She hands me a receipt. “You have to pick it up later.”

I crumple the pink receipt into my pocket.

“What does this mean?” Riley asks.

“I don’t know. It’s never happened to me before.” Our table is, indeed, empty, save for the number 110. The tabletop looks large and empty and sad. I stop and stare.

Riley takes my hand. Once smaller than mine, it’s now larger. She pulls on me gently. “Let’s go take a break, Aunt Gal.”

She should not have to lead me, this child in an adult body. I want to tell her so.

But I am too tired.

I follow her out of the ballroom.

• • •

I
TRY MY BEST
to lift myself up out of my funk, but I keep dwelling on George’s news. I phone my mother.

“I’m on my way,” she says promptly.

“No, Mother.”

“Gal, at least let me do this for you. I’ll stay with Riley tonight so you don’t have to worry.” I hear a car door bang. “I’m already in the car. You’re only two hours away. There’s nothing you can do about it now.”

“You better hang up, then.”